


Reflection

by gaysandcrime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But i kinda like it, Dark, Green Eyes, HP/LV - Freeform, HP/TMR - Freeform, Harry is Tom is Voldemort is Harry, Harry is in a dark place, Harry is very fucked up, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mirrors, Not Epilogue Compliant, References to Depression, Sort of like the Mirror of Erised, The Author Regrets Nothing, Voldarry, pretty vague but could still be triggering, red eyes, they are one and the same, tomarry - Freeform, twisted as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8661514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/pseuds/gaysandcrime
Summary: Harry's reflection is no longer his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaylock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/gifts).



> This fic makes more sense if you listen to Evanscence while reading it. Also, I may or may not eventually take this plot bunny and turn it into a larger story....maybe. If I have time, and if you people enjoy it. We'll see.

Harry sits in front of the mirror inside his dingy, cheap flat and cradles the bottle of whiskey against his too thin chest. Clothes and wrappers and other junk are strewn across the floor, and a pile of glass bottles sits in the corner by the one tiny window. Even in the dim light of evening, it is easy to see the grime and dust and dirt which cover everything inside. Everything that is, but the mirror.  
  
The mirror is kept in pristine condition and its surface glitters in the candlelight. Harry waits with baited breath for the moment when the sun will be gone completely, and the room will be bathed in darkness except for the single candle sitting by his side. Every night he does this, like a sort of obscene ritual; watching the mirror like it's the answer to every question he has ever asked. In the beginning, after the war, Harry had tried to live a normal life. It didn't work. Every day he had waited with baited breath for something to happen, something _exciting._ And when nothing did happen, he would be consumed with his disappointment. Every night he would go to sleep thinking that it would all get better, and every night he woke up to the sounds of his screams echoing off of the walls, his mind still filled with gore and violence and darkness. The nightmares were nothing new, of course, and he had a moment where he felt absurdly grateful for the fact that he still had them. He didn't think he could get used to silent nights, not now that everything around him is so silent, so calm.  
  
_-swallowedupinthesoundofmyscreamingcannotceaseforthefearofsilentnights-_

He chugs the last of the whiskey from the bottle in his lap and then tosses the glass aside. Even though his mind grows foggy with booze, his eyes never waver, never close. They stare unblinkingly at the surface of the mirror, and in the darkness, they seem to glow until, despite the candle beside him, his eyes are the only things he can see. They flicker and fade until green turns to black turns to red turns to green and then all at once. This, this is what he waits for every night, his whiskey bottle in his hand and his candle by his side. This transformation, where he sees the parts of him that are not him but are _him_. He reaches out a hand as if to touch the figure in the mirror, and smiles. Crimson eyes and a pale face stare back at him, silent, watchful.  
  
_Not gone,_ Harry thinks to himself, _not really_.  
  
Because even though the Horcrux inside of him was destroyed, Harry had lived with it too long and it had left an impression on his own soul. And Harry knows Tom's childhood, knows his fears and his thoughts and his hopes and his dreams; he _knows_ them so well it's as if they are his own.  
  
And sometimes they are _(harrytomharrytomharrytom)._  
  
Tom is dead, his body and his life and his soul are all dead; and because of this, so is Harry. Until now, like every night when the sun goes down. Because now, instead of that dead feeling inside of him, like he is nothing but a husk, nothing but a shadow- now, in front of the mirror, they can both be alive.

* * *

  
At first, it was just the dreams. Dreams of Voldemort, of snakes and smoke and blood, dreams of Tom and red and _red and_ _redredredredred_. Dreams of blood, of wounds of fighting. Of death.  
  
And then it was visions, of Voldemort there with him, at work, at home, in bed. Tom laughing, reading, walking, talking, _kissingkissingkissing_. Harry didn't know what was wrong with him, didn't know what to do. At the beginning, he would try, try _so hard_ not to think of _him,_ of the war, of any of it. Try so hard to be normal. It never worked. Sometimes his friends would come home to find him talking to people who weren't there, sometimes Ginny would wonder why they didn't have sex anymore, would ask why he wouldn't kiss her. Sometimes, when nobody was around, Harry would pretend nothing was wrong and ignore the visions, the dreams.  
  
Most of the time, though, he was glad they were there. He didn't feel so alone.  
  
_-yousawmewantingmyloveforyouandtouchedmyhandIknewyoulovedmethen-_

Ginny leaves and his friends leave and everyone leaves. Except for Tom. And so he will lift his hand and touch the mirror, and know in that moment that Voldemort isn't gone, not truly. Not so long as Harry lives, not so long as he remembers, and dreams. His friends won't understand, _can't_ understand, but that doesn't matter to him; he will give up anything and everything for this, to keep Tom alive, even just for a little while. Because Harry knows in his heart that he is nothing without Tom, without Voldemort. And that's just the way it is.  
  
He looks into the mirror and can see _his_ face when he looks deep enough. One is the other and both are the same. Green is red is green is red. Neither can live while the other survives, but what nobody knew is that _one cannot live without the other_. What was Harry has become Tom and what was Tom has become Harry and now it's just  _harrytomharrytomharrytom._  
  
Harry never feels more alive than in that moment, when _tomvoldemorttomvoldemort_ stares out at him from the depths of the mirror. This is the moment when two become one and Harry can feel his own broken soul healing. Splinter come together and red is green is red is green. Is _redgreenredgreenredgreen_. It feels like drowning, this transformation. Feels like drowning in his enemy, in his savior, in his Tom. Feels like drowning in blood and crimson and hatred and perfect and _love._ Sometimes _tomharrytomharrytomharry_ confuses his thoughts, and they seem more like _him_ than like him. He doesn't mind, really. After all, there is very little difference when one lives in a vision.  
  
_-Idontknowwhatsrealandwhatsnotalwaysconfusingthethoughtsinmyhead-_  
  
It's as if his heart is an open wound, and his mind is open too, and his soul doesn't exist at all until he is there. And then they can merge and become one, and Harry thinks _(fearswantsdreamshopes)_ that one day it will be permanent, that one night he will sit down to see him in the mirror, and they will both stare back at him from the glass. _Greenisredisgreenisred._  
  
_Soon,_ Harry thinks as he traces over the pale face in the mirror, his movements watched by crimson red eyes. _Soon we will be together again._


End file.
